


I ain't nothing but tired

by FlatlandDan



Series: Dancing in the Dark [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pads softly into the kitchen, bare feet and bare legs protruding from a natty housecoat none of them had seen before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I ain't nothing but tired

He pads softly into the kitchen, bare feet and bare legs protruding from a natty housecoat none of them had seen before. He ignores the eyes and the silence that follows him, fills the kettle and clicks it on by rote memory. Hands come to rest gently on either side of the kettle, head more solidly against the cabinet, eyes involuntarily shut. Someone clears his throat.

 

“You alright, Clint?” Steve’s voice was soft in inquiry, soft kid gloves on in recognition of the situation. The kettle clicks off and Clint pushes himself back and upright. The slight sway would be un-noticeable to most people, but he couldn’t pretend the five sets of eyes on him were normal. Thankfully, he also couldn’t bring himself to give a crap. He reaches under the right shoulder of his housecoat to bring out a hot water bottle. A smaller one is removed from near his left wrist. Gingerly emptying and refilling them he allows himself a sigh when they’re re-applied.

 

“Will be” he replies, opening the fridge.

 

“How long did Coulson leave you out this time?”

 

“87 hours.” 87 hours of cold, of pain, of arrows notched and waiting for just the right person to walk past. 87 hours of just his camel pack, beef jerky, wind, hail, and Coulson’s voice saying _not him, not her, not them_ and finally _not anyone, not today, maybe tomorrow._ He grabs a carton of orange juice and drops it into the outside pocket of his housecoat, pausing to let sleep crusted eyes take in the pizza boxes and beers of a traditional Avengers Friday dinner. Tony leans over and deliberately closes a box with half a pizza left. Pairs of eyes connect in silent agreement.

 

“Go back to bed, Clint. We’ll leave some in the fridge for you.” Steve’s voice is firm now, more commanding, and Clint is more grateful for the order then the promise. He turns away from the party and stumbles down the hall until he sees the telltale cracks from the night he kicked his door in. His bed is still warm but he sits on the edge for a moment, drinking orange juice. He shivers slightly in the cold but carries on, fuelled by a faint memory of his mother telling him to drink orange juice when he felt worn down as a child. He curls up like he did then, arms wrapping around a pillow, knees pulled up and blanket over his head. The water bottles soothes his aches, scattering heat through the pillow and warming the side of his face.

 

The next time he wakes, there is a full electric kettle, two slices of pizza and ibuprofen gel balanced on his bedside table. Steve, his mind helpfully dredges up, though he can’t quite remember why. He looks at the clock sees that it has been nearly 24 hours. _Good_ , he thinks as he clicks the kettle on. _Not anyone, not today._

 

 _Maybe tomorrow._


End file.
